Pandemic (25 page)

Mom and I would finally be together again. I dared to imagine it, the sweetness of a reunion with Mom crying and hugging me. We’d figure out how to survive the rest of the pandemic together, somehow. And we’d find a way to honor Dad.

But she would hate to come home to a messy house, so I made the beds, wiped the counters, and folded the laundry, putting Dad’s clean clothes in the dresser where they belonged.

I was stacking some of Ty’s washed T-shirts by the front door when the doorbell rang. Maybe it was my good mood. Maybe it was the normalcy of having the electric back and doing ordinary chores. I forgot about the danger for a moment. Without thinking, I pulled the door open. It was a stupid thing to do.

Mr. B loomed in the doorway.

C
HAPTER
26

The need for antiviral medicine and other supplies has well exceeded the state’s Strategic Stockpile.

—Blue Flu interview, New Jersey governor’s office

I
tried to slam the door, but Mr. B put out his hand and held it open.

“Lilianna.”

My body trembled with fear. Where was the hornet spray? Not by the door where I needed it. I checked outside for anyone who might be able to help me. Even the looters could cause a distraction. But the street was deserted.

“Please, can I come in?” he asked.

“No.” I tried to sound strong, authoritative, but the shaking reached my voice. He wasn’t holding any obvious weapons, but there was a white shopping bag at his feet. He hadn’t even needed a weapon to overpower me the last time. He seemed taller than I remembered. Had he always towered over me like that?

“I need to speak with you,” he said, eyes pleading.

I didn’t trust those eyes. Why was Mr. B here? Of all the people who had died, somehow he had managed to stay alive. Like a cockroach. And now he was at my house, refusing to leave.

If I couldn’t get back inside alone, the safest tactic was to stay outside, where someone might see us. Being out in daylight felt more secure somehow.

“We can talk here.” I stepped tentatively onto the front stoop, crossing my arms over my chest. I kept my eyes focused on his Adam’s apple. It would make a good target if I had to punch him.

Mr. B cleared his throat. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

The words washed over me, but I had a hard time comprehending them. “What?”

“I’m sorry that my actions . . . that I may have upset you,” he said.

I let this sink in. Being sorry for upsetting me was not the same thing as being sorry for what he actually
did
. His words sounded hollow. Every part of me stayed rigid, unyielding. “Did you get a court order from another victim or something? Why are you suddenly apologizing now?”

“It’s time to make amends.”

“Why? It’s been months since . . .”

Ignoring my question, he picked up the shopping bag and held it out to me like a peace offering. I braced myself, not sure what to expect. Taking my eyes off him only long enough to glance inside the bag, I gasped. It was filled with boxes of antiviral.

“Here,” he said. “It’s medicine.”

“I know exactly what it is.” I took the bag by the handles, careful not to brush his hand with my fingers. I was torn between curiosity about the drugs and the need to get away from him.

“You didn’t just buy these off the shelf. Where did you get them?”

“The source isn’t important.”

“That’s not what you said when we didn’t use correct attributions in class essays. And for all I know you’re trying to poison me.”

He sighed. “The boxes are sealed, brand new. My brother worked at Portico Pharmacy. He had access to various medications after the outbreak.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lilianna, we made certain items available, for a price. But I’m not interested in the money any longer.”

“How does your brother feel about this donation?” I frowned, not bothering to hide my mistrust.

“He’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’ve always been effective at community service. If anyone can distribute medicine to those in need, it’s you.”

He coughed then, and I noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Oh,” I said, backing away. “You’re sick.”

“Yes. In my defense, I called before the symptoms appeared. When my brother died, I had a feeling this was inevitable. The antiviral might have slowed the illness down, but it’s not enough. I thought if I could make things right before—”

“You need to leave. Now.”

“Of course.” He started down the front stoop, pausing after two steps so that we were eye to eye. “Lilianna . . . can you forgive me?”

I thought of my life before, of the emotional wreckage he’d caused. Part of me wanted to rise above the anger, to feel empathy and compassion.

But I couldn’t. My heart was a block of ice, frozen inside my chest.

“No,” I said. “And my forgiveness wouldn’t be enough to save you.”

I slammed the door and locked it. Then I took the shopping bag and hurled it as far as I could. The blue boxes skittered across the floor.

My adrenaline and fear left me shaken. But giddiness bubbled inside, too. I had faced him, my worst nightmare, and I was safe. The confrontation hadn’t killed me. He was gone.

My parents would be so proud. And wait until Megs heard about this!

No.
I slumped against the door, overwhelmed as the grief battered me all over again. Would I ever get used to her absence or Dad’s death?

I needed to talk to someone before the emotion consumed me, someone who understood my history. When the shaking finally stopped, I dialed my therapist. On the third ring, her answering machine kicked in. “This is Dr. Gwen,” she said in a strained voice. “Due to illness, I’m not currently returning calls. You can leave non-urgent messages after the beep.”

I hung up, then crashed onto the couch. I didn’t want to think that Dr. Gwen was dead, too. I stared at the blank TV screen for a long time before finally switching on the news. New Jersey was in the spotlight and things had gone from bad to worse while we’d been without electricity. The death count was now in the tens of thousands. There was an urgent need for more refrigerated trucks to hold dead bodies until the morgues could catch up. Vaccine production, while further along, was still months away. I flicked channels through various dire reports until I found a debate about antivirals. They were at a premium and it was unclear how the existing supply would be distributed.

“All citizens between fifteen and fifty are at risk,” one expert announced. “So, who gets it first? Pregnant women? People with preexisting conditions, like asthma? But we can’t expect the emergency system to work if those on the front lines aren’t protected. Not only doctors and nurses but EMT volunteers, police, and firefighters are expected to help the ill. With the flu so easily transmitted, is it fair to ask them to do so without some kind of protective measures?”

Two other experts weighed in with their conflicting opinions until a shouting match erupted and I turned the TV off.

I had medicine now. Lots of it. Some to save, others to give away. Boxes that people would die for littered my floor. Somehow it needed to be distributed safely.

Were those voices outside? I quickly gathered the antiviral and crammed it into the safe. I took the long way back to Jay’s house, feeling more secure the closer I got. I couldn’t risk running into the looters again.

I used the time walking to think about the antiviral. The obvious answer was to hand the medicine over to the police. But as I played the scenario out in my mind, it wasn’t that simple. The police were sure to question where it came from. Mentioning Mr. B would create a whirlwind that I didn’t want to be caught up in. Reporting what happened between us once had been enough. I wouldn’t be forced to share those memories with strangers yet again.

So I couldn’t mention Mr. B and his pharmacy-stealing brother. I wasn’t an accomplished enough liar to convince the cops that the stuff had just appeared on my doorstep, and I’m sure they wouldn’t let such a vague answer slide. If only Mrs. Salerno were alive.

Turning the boxes over to the police was out.

As I walked down the street, an ambulance drove by with no sirens on, a black ribbon tied to the antennae to indicate the emergency squad was transporting dead bodies. The EMTs needed the antiviral. So did a lot of other people. It was a complicated issue.

As I neared Jay’s house, I realized that the antiviral needed to go to someone respected in Portico, someone who could make the best decision about passing the medicine along to those who needed it most.

I knew who to ask. But I needed Cam and Ty to be completely better first.

When I arrived at Jay’s house, he met me in the yard. “Where are the kids?”

Goosebumps prickled my arms. “What do you mean? They’re here with you.”

“No, I sent them to you,” he said, holding open the front door. Even from the entrance, I could see that his house was trashed worse than my own. “Looters. I saw them coming, a big rowdy group of them. I sent the kids to your house to keep them safe.”

His mouth was in a tight line, his fear quiet but contagious.

“They never . . .” I whispered, almost unable to finish the thought. “They never made it to my house.”

C
HAPTER
27

Life insurance companies are too understaffed to deal with the substantial number of fatalities. “We try to process a claim for, say, a dead wife, but often when we call back for further information, the husband has died, too. It’s a logistical nightmare.”

—Blue Flu interview, Global Insurance agent

Y
ou were supposed to let me know when you were on your way back,” Jay said.

“I forgot. My mother called and . . .” I didn’t want to mention Mr. B.

“But I told them to run to you,” he said, shaking his head. “I was still inside getting my mom’s jewelry when the looters began trashing the place. I waited in the attic until they left. Where could Ty and Cam be?”

Panic coursed through me. How could they be missing? Did the looters kidnap them? When Jay exploded into action, I followed right behind.

“Ty! Where are you?” he shouted, rushing into the empty street.

“Cam!” I joined in. “Cam!”

“You didn’t see them on the way here?” he asked, glancing frantically around. “You should have passed each other.”

“I took the long way around the block. I had to think—”

“What if the looters found them?”

“Cam! Ty!” My voice shook as I called louder. “They have to be safe,” I said. “They have to be. They would run away or hide.”

“But what if—”

“Wait.” A half-formed thought nagged at my consciousness. “A hiding spot—”

“You’re right,” Jay interrupted. “Let’s go.” He grabbed my hand and we ran to the overgrown maple in silence, too anxious to speak.

When we reached the cave-tree, I expected to hear voices. The silence shattered my courage. I couldn’t bear it if we were wrong and the kids were gone.

“You go first,” I said.

Jay ducked under the branches.

I held my breath.

Right when I thought my knees would buckle, that I would collapse from the panic, Cam squealed and Ty yelped. And then I was there with them, hugging and crying. We were together, safe under the leafy branches.

For once it felt like enough.

After salvaging what supplies they could from their damaged house, Jay, Ty, Mrs. Hernandez, and Cam all moved in with me. It was weird to see Jay’s aunt outside of school. But everyone agreed that it would be safer if we stayed together. Ty and Jay moved into the guest room, and Mrs. Hernandez slept on the couch on the nights she wasn’t working. All of us had taken the antiviral now, and I saved a few packs, just in case.

Reggie managed to get his own prescription from a retired doctor friend. We asked him to move in with us, but he wasn’t interested. “I’ve got a gun,” he said. “And I’m not afraid to use it. Let those looters try me.” So he stayed at his home but checked in often with us.

On Wednesday morning, he stopped by and offered to take Cam and Ty for a few hours. Cam, who wasn’t sleeping well at night, wanted to know if the Senior Center was safe.

“It will be OK,” Reggie assured her. “Ty will come with us.”

“Maybe we should stay home,” she said.

But Ty had heard all about the cookies. “Let’s go for a little while,” he said. “I’m hungry. And I bet they have something fun for you to do there, too. Do old people like to dance?”

“As a matter of fact, they do,” Reggie said. “The ladies love line dancing. They stand in a row and do the same steps together.”

“I bet I can teach them some moves!” Cam said, grabbing her sneakers.

“Maybe I’ll come along, too,” I said, swinging my backpack over my shoulder.

“Sure thing, Miss Lil.”

Once Cam and Ty were occupied with a group of seniors, it didn’t take me long to find Mrs. Templeton, who was settling a dispute over the TV channel.

“Take turns,” she scolded two elderly men. “You each get half an hour.”

“I need to speak with you.” I glanced around. “Is there someplace quiet we can talk?”